


Tap-tap-tap

by satismagic



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, Apple watch, First Time, M/M, Vulcan Kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2289440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satismagic/pseuds/satismagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apple watch AU. "Tap. Let friends or loved ones know you’re thinking of them with a silent, gentle tap they’ll feel on the wrist. You can even customize taps for different people."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tap-tap-tap

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of real person fiction, written with the most loving intentions, none of which are malicious, defamatory, libelous, or slanderous. That means this is a _fictional_ story about _fictional_ representations of real people. In other words: none of this is true. The only profit the author derived from writing this work was fun, of which they hope to share 110% with their readers.

Everyone has at least one type of drink they just can’t handle.

Chris’s – Pine’s, that is – is champagne, unfortunately. In terms of a drinking intolerance, that’s about the worst you can pick for a life of glamor and red carpets. Thankfully, champagne also gives Pine a stomach ache, so he’s learned to be really careful with it, to the eternal disappointment of paparazzi the globe over.

Zach’s killer drink is blue curaçao, which is easier to avoid. Which is why it is a mystery to him how he ended up with a deep blue drink tonight instead of a gin and tonic mixed with the crystal clear and _clearly_ much more harmless Bombay Sapphire. But the color matches Chris Pine’s eyes, who’s smiling at Zach over the rim of his margarita now, flirtatious and beautiful as always. Zach swirls the tangy, bittersweet drink around in his mouth. He can practically feel how the blue liquor is loosening his tongue.

They are sitting with Zoe and Karl at the bar of some fancy hotel’s roof garden, companionably condemning the subpar quality of the interviews for STiD they endured today.

“That woman who wouldn’t shut up about Vulcan kisses,” Karl says. “If she is such an expert on the original series, why did she even ask about it? I mean, Vulcan kisses are about as erotic as a sweaty handshake.”

“They just want to see you guys make out,” Chris says, raising his glass to Zoe. “And who wouldn’t?”

“No, they don’t.” Zoe laughs. “Come on, who is the ‘epic romance’ in these movies? Have you listened to your questions today at all?”

Involuntarily, Chris meets Zach’s eyes and promptly blushes, that intimate full body blush of his that always, always makes Zach wonder just how far below the collar it extends. But Chris doesn’t look away, he just keeps staring at Zach as if hypnotized. He doesn’t even lick his lips to break the tension. Zach recognizes the pain in his eyes, along with other emotions he really doesn’t want to see.

With a jerky movement, Zach lowers his head and stares into the blue depths of his drink. He thinks of the night during the previous press tour, when Chris had to admit that he’d never gone beyond teenaged groping, and Zach promptly put a stop to things before the clothes came off. Chris’s sob story might even be true, but he’d told it just in time to remind Zach of his vow never to fall for unavailable men again.

(At fourteen, a girl had sent Chris away with the words “come back when your skin is nice”.  Two years later, a boy had been less discerning, probably focusing more on what Chris’s lips might do for him than on his acne. Unfortunately, they had been caught by a teacher – Chris on his knees with his mouth full of cock. The teacher had put the fear of god into him with the suggestion that his mother would certainly insist on therapy if something like that happened ever again. By the time he was in Berkeley, Chris had a girlfriend, and it was easy to relegate different desires to harmless “man crushes”, like his thing for Karl of all people.)

“Of course, he hasn’t,” Karl interrupts thankfully and gestures to the barkeeper for another beer, “you know how Pine gets without a snack every hour on the hour ...”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Chris objects, finally looking away, too. He licks his lips and blushes even harder. “That’s a valid blood sugar thing.”

And here’s where this conversation could end, where it _should_ end, with Chris being his usual goofy self, another drink, another joke, and an early night because tomorrow the show must go on. But Zach remembers what he said about Chris in one of the interviews today. He’d been asked to describe Chris. “Give me three adjectives,” the woman had said. _Intelligent, talented, authentic._ Zach thinks of how he wanted to add tender and sweet, careful and introspective. More Spock-ish in some ways than he is himself. Innocent, in a way, and endlessly curious about himself ...

“I don’t know,” Zach says and takes another deep swallow of blue curaçao. “I think Vulcan kissing can be passionate. It’s just subtle.”

“Oh, really?” Zoe asks, stabbing the little paper umbrella from her cocktail in his direction. “Care to demonstrate the hotness of a hand rub?” Then she giggles and rhythmically jerks two fingers. “Okay, I guess you’ve got me there.”

“Challenge accepted,” Zach says and downs the rest of his drink. He’s definitely tipsy now. “Pine, your hand.”

“What?” Chris almost drops his glass.  

That Chris obeys instantly nevertheless, makes his balls tighten with desire. _Yeah_ , Zach thinks, _this is a mistake_. He still takes Chris’s hand.

Biting down on his lower lip, Zach extends index finger and middle finger, much the way he’d do to finger a lover’s ass before a good, long fuck. But when he touches Chris’s hand, it’s gentle and very deliberate. First he touches Chris’s fingertips and desperately tries to ignore how that tiny touch makes his own fingers tingle and his stomach flutter. Zach strokes down Chris’s fingers and watches how his lips part in a sigh. _Oh, yes. This is a mistake._ He lets his fingers rest on the back of Chris’s hand and drums his fingertips on warm, smooth skin. The rhythm of his tapping – is he just nervous? Or is that his heartbeat? Suddenly Zach thinks of similar scenes in the cheesy classics of his youth, “Dirty Dancing” and “Ghost”, how rhythm translated into feelings in those movies. He draws away his hand as if burned.

*

On his birthday, Zach’s alone in New York. He’s been awake since four am. He hasn’t been sleeping well lately, and of course he has the day off for his birthday. Tonight he’ll throw a party because that’s what you do. The show must go on. But for the time being he sits alone in his lonely apartment and stares at the spots where things are missing. The stacks of art books that used to pile up in the living room no matter how often he put them on shelves. The horrible throw rug on the sofa. The beat-up backpack that was a continual tripping hazard on the floor. The chipped “I love NY” mug in the kitchen.

He’s grateful when the doorbell rings and forces him to abandon his morose musings. The mail. Of course, it is his birthday. There will be cards.

A few minutes later he’s back in the living room with a stack of letters and cards and a small package. He recognizes the laboriously neat handwriting instantly, doesn’t even have to look at the address.

But they don’t do this kind of thing. They don’t call each other on their birthdays. They do call, of course they do. That’s how their mothers raised them. But they always call fashionably late – one, two, three days later, the way friendly but very busy colleagues do. And they _never_ do gifts. That would be too much. Especially if there are partners around who have to live in the shadow of the epic (b)romance of the Star Trek heroes. So, no birthday calls, no Christmas calls, no New Year’s calls, and _definitely_ no gifts.

That Chris sends _this_ to him is out of character, unprecedented, and ... against the rules. Against the unwritten rules of their relationship that Zach set down in stone, that Chris seemed to accept, that Chris only protested with a mute shift of color in his expressive eyes (bright happy blue to sad November gray).

That Chris sends this to him _now_ – after Zach’s very public and extremely painful separation from the man he’d thought just might be “the one” (the one he could want to grow old with, the one who made it clear that kids were not in the cards, the one who felt too young to marry) – is perfectly in character, however.

It’s generous, whimsical, perceptive, and just ... _Chris_ to the dot on the i.

Because Zach doesn’t have anything better to do (nowhere to be, _no one_ to be with), and because of course Chris is right, he _loves_ this hipster toy, Zach spends the rest of his lonely birthday morning playing with his new Apple watch, figuring out all its functions, from “tap” (“Let friends or loved ones know you’re thinking of them with a silent, gentle tap they’ll feel on the wrist. You can even customize taps for different people.“) to “heartbeat” (“When you press two fingers on the screen, the built-in heart rate sensor records and sends your heartbeat. It’s a simple and intimate way to tell someone how you feel.”) and all the other options. When Zach syncs his calendars, he discovers there’s a date marked in the calendar of the Apple watch, for the weekend before shooting starts for the next Trek. Dinner at Chris’s house.

The day passes pleasantly enough after this surprise, and the party turns out to be much nicer than he expected. Zach hasn’t been doing himself any favors, holing up and moping. Hanging out with friends and acquaintances helps him recharge and reminds him that he may have no relationship right now, but he also isn’t alone. How many men indicate that they’d be happy to leave the party with him is a boost for his ego, too.

However, Zach goes home alone. He falls asleep with his new watch on his wrist.

At three in the morning he is woken by an insistent tap-tap-tap against his wrist. A gentle pulse, a meaningful rhythm. Like a Morse code, a secret message. _Tap-tap-tap._ Then nothing. At first Zach thinks he’s just had a weird dream. Then he glances at his new watch, and it’s all lit up with the notification of a new “tap”. There’s no message, but Zach doesn’t need to see the sender’s ID to know who it’s from.

When the tiny screen of the watch goes dark again, Zach’s wide awake. He lies in his bed and stares at the ceiling. He extends the index and middle finger of his left hand and taps out a sequence on his right wrist. It’s kind of strange that he remembers that rhythm from that random, liquor-soaked evening on the press tour two years ago. How in hell does he even recall that cadence? That one, specific tap-tap-tap? He’s not that talented musically. And that sequence is not that special, just a few short beats. Tap-tap-tap.

But Zach does remember it. His stomach flutters, as he remembers a warm evening on the rooftop of a hotel far away, a glass or two or three of blue curaçao, jokes and friends, and one Vulcan kiss.

Much more important, though, is perhaps another question: Why does _Chris_ remember that rhythm? And why did he send that particular tap to Zach now? Is it supposed to be a virtual fist bump, a gesture of support, a reminder that Zach isn’t all alone, that they are still comrades-in-arms, at least until the end of the final press tour? Or is that message meant as something more – an expression of renewed interest, perhaps?

Zach turns around, not only wide awake now, but distinctly uncomfortable. _Not renewed interest_ , he thinks. _Continued interest._ More than interest. Zach would have to be blind not to notice how Chris looks at him. But if Chris is still in love with him, why has he never said anything before?

And last but not least, why doesn’t he say something now?

Because this time, Chris doesn’t call for Zach’s birthday. Not even fashionably late.

*

The date Chris marked in Zach’s Apple watch calendar rolls around. It’s a cerulean evening, bright and balmy. They have dinner on the terrace behind Chris’s house. Chris has cooked himself. A simple, conservative steak dinner: fresh green beans, perfectly grilled steak, potatoes baked to fluffy goodness and drenched with butter. There are days to observe the strict diet they are both on. Today is not such a day. They don’t even have to discuss that. Zach thinks there may be ice cream later. Or pie. Chris has been going on about blood orange pie, so maybe that’s the surprise he’s saved for dessert.

“How about a postprandial walk?” Chris suggests when they’ve cleared the table.

Zach agrees readily. It’s either a walk or a nap, and he wants to enjoy Chris’s company while awake. It’s been much too long since they spent time together like that, just the two of them. It’s two years since the last press tour, since the last events they did together, months since the last party in L.A. that they attended together, purely by coincidence. A coincidence that triggered an especially acrimonious argument with his ex. Driving over, Zach wondered how it would be, the two of them together that evening. Would the chemistry between them have finally mellowed to comradeship? Or would there still be that thrill of attraction, that ineffable affinity between them? The never mentioned, always present potential for more than friendship?

He needn’t have worried. (Was he really worried about that?) Chris looks at him the way he’s always looked at him. (As if he hung the moon.) Zach’s heart aches and his pulse quickens. Yes, it’s still there, that strange attraction. (Like gravity.) They decide to stay in the garden, unwilling to brave the paparazzi that may linger outside. So they take the path from the terrace to the orange grove at the far end of garden. Zach wants to take Chris’s hand. (Because if he’s the moon, Chris is the earth, and now, years after he denounced the laws of physics that govern their relationship, he’s still in orbit.) It’s not much of a walk, and they don’t talk. It’s always been like that between them, on the rare occasions it’s been just the two of them. (Natural. As if _together_ is their natural state, a state that requires no effort because it just _is_. As if staying apart is the difficult part for them because it’s unnatural for them.)

The sun is sinking when they reach the low rough-stone wall that separates the orange grove from the rest of the garden. The first ripe fruits are glowing brightly between glossy dark leaves. They lean on the wall next to each other, almost but not quite touching.

“Why did you never call me out on my bullshit?” Zach asks suddenly. “Because it was bullshit. You must know that.”

Chris laughs softly, but he doesn’t seem surprised at the abrupt reference of a brutal rejection years ago. He curls his hands around the opposite edge of the wall and tilts his head a little. His face is crinkling with his smile, his eyes warm and blue like the summer sky above them. Zach wonders how Chris has managed not to let this unrequited love grow bitter. How he’s held onto this golden glow. Or maybe it’s just the sunset that creates the illusion of a halo. “You’re an intelligent man, Zachary. You don’t need me for that.”

 _But I do need you_ , Zach thinks, for once perfectly honest with himself. _And I do want you._

“And you had a point,” Chris adds. He grips his left elbow with his right hand and rests his chin on his forearm. “You were on the verge of coming out. I didn’t even have a name for what I am. Bad timing, man. It’s a thing.”

“And the timing is better now? Is that why you sent me the watch?” Zach’s heart is pounding now. He stares at the watch. He could record his heartbeat now. So he can play it back to himself later. As proof of his emotional compromise where Chris is concerned.

“Hmm-hmm.” Chris stares straight ahead at his orange trees now. A hint of tension in his shoulders gives away that he’s not quite as relaxed as he seems. “I still have as much or as little experience as I did five years ago, Zach. But by now I know that you don’t measure bisexuality – or any sexual identity – in sexual experience. That’s not how identity works. And I’m ready to acknowledge that in public now, too.”

Zach remembers a blind item his publicist brought to his attention a few months ago. “ _What other leading man from that sci-fi franchise is contemplating coming out?”_ Over the years, Chris’s handling of the press and the public has become very careful and very deliberate. There’s probably a detailed plan of action jotted down in his beloved moleskine, and his publicist has statements prepared for every stage of the strategy. Zach thinks of how he ended up doing it, how different their stories are, his and Chris's. How he came out. Kind of spur of the moment. Two short throw-away remarks after a long, agonizing build-up. How shaky he’d felt afterwards. But the time had been right.

Suddenly a hot wave of shame washes over him. During the first movie, when the time had not been right, when he had not been ready, Chris had known that about him, had never once made him uncomfortable, had always respected and supported his choices. When the time had been right, when he had been ready, Chris had been one of the first to call, had always stayed comfortable with him, had shown his support and respect in public and in private. While Zach had ignored one of the most basic truths of the queer community: _Your story is not my story._

 _Can we still have a story together?_ Zach wonders. _After I refused to listen to your story for years?_

Somewhere nearby a woodpecker is hard at work, going tap-tap-tap against a tree trunk. _Tap-tap-tap._ Zach’s heart is still racing, and he’s still staring at the watch. He inhales deeply. Chris doesn’t use Armani Code anymore. He’s back to some earthy, woodsy, grounding scent, with a hint of Argan oil. Suddenly Zach wants nothing more than to learn how Chris smells naked and sweaty in his arms. But now, just before filming starts for the next movie, is probably not a good time to hook up, never mind if Chris is ready to come out.

_Fuck timing._

Zach steps behind Chris. Of course Chris isn’t wearing a watch, much less an Apple watch, even though he must have one, or he wouldn’t have been able to send that tap. In the orange grove, the woodpecker is still drumming away against a tree. Zach reaches for Chris’s hand. He can feel how Chris sucks in his breath. He’s sure that Chris can feel the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat against his back. Index and middle finger extended, Zach strokes along Chris’s fingers and over the back of his hand. For a moment he lets his fingertips rest on Chris’s wrist. Then he taps out a short measure of beats. _Tap-tap-tap._ He’s definitely nervous this time, and his heartbeat is much faster than this. Zach lays his hand over Chris’s hand. He knows that Chris can feel how he’s shaking.

For a moment, they stay like that, silent, motionless. Even the woodpecker has abandoned its efforts. Then Chris turns around to face him and puts his arms around his neck.

“Ready for your first kiss?” Zach asks breathlessly.

“You’ve kissed me before, five years ago.” Chris laughs. Then he grins, raises his eyebrows, and adds, “And if I’m not mistaken, you just kissed me again, Mr. Spock. With subtle Vulcan passion.”

Zach shakes his head. He’ll have his hands full with Chris. (His life, too, he hopes. His heart anyway.) He pulls Chris close. Close enough to press the button that will record his heartbeat on the watch.

“That didn’t count.” Zach’s heart is pounding, _TAP-TAP-TAP_. Chris’s heart matches the rhythm, but he’s pliant in Zach’s arms, and his lips are warm and soft. This kiss is passionate, too, but less than subtle and very human. When they finally come up for air, Zach manages to have the last word – perhaps for the last time in his life. But he’s okay with that.

“ _This_ is where our story starts, Captain.”

**Author's Note:**

> ♥ Thank you for reading! ♥


End file.
